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BY SCARLET TORCH AND BLADE
They're meeting them in motors and they'll tote
'em up the trail
Where the pack-nags are a-packing with a tramp,
tramp, tramp-
Packing tools and grub and blankets up the
canyon to the camp.
And fire they'll foil with back-fire-pitting pitch
'gainst snarling pitch,
They'll slash the brake and lacerate the earth
with upturned ditch;
Their skins will smart with singeing draughts
that play along their tracks,
They'll sting with wet from reeking sweat of
shovel, pick and ax.
'em up the trail
Where the pack-nags are a-packing with a tramp,
tramp, tramp-
Packing tools and grub and blankets up the
canyon to the camp.
And fire they'll foil with back-fire-pitting pitch
'gainst snarling pitch,
They'll slash the brake and lacerate the earth
with upturned ditch;
Their skins will smart with singeing draughts
that play along their tracks,
They'll sting with wet from reeking sweat of
shovel, pick and ax.
She's headed up for Clear Creek and she'll make
it 'fore she stops,
For she's a roaring crown-fire with her wind-
swept, blazing tops.
From flaming lance to flaming lance on through
the parching day,
Exhaling clouds of rolling black, she surges on
her way.
She sucks the flying embers like a burning
hurricane,
She flings them miles around her in a sputtering,
sparking rain,
it 'fore she stops,
For she's a roaring crown-fire with her wind-
swept, blazing tops.
From flaming lance to flaming lance on through
the parching day,
Exhaling clouds of rolling black, she surges on
her way.
She sucks the flying embers like a burning
hurricane,
She flings them miles around her in a sputtering,
sparking rain,
